Strange Terrain
by d0ntbleenk
Summary: Stiles and Malia have been married for two years. But when suddenly she is put in a coma and wakes up with no recollection of her life with him, Stiles must find a way to convince the love of his life to love him again. Loosely based on The Vow. AU/AH.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: OK so I was told to write another Stalia AU fanfic, and was given this prompt by Karen (stilesism) to make it inspired by the Vow so this is what I've come up with. It will have multiple chapters of course but I don't know how long it'll be. Guess you'll have to read and see! Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Strange Terrain<strong>

Chapter 1 – Moments

_"Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life." – Omar Keyyam_

Stiles always believed that life consisted of moments. It was just one big, cluster-fuck of moments that impacted your life; good ones that made it all worthwhile, and bad ones that made it feel like the world had stopped spinning and all of the air had been sucked out of your lungs. He had been the victim of far too many of those kinds of moments.

At two, his mother had died of cancer. Cruel and abrupt, she had been snatched from him before he had even learned to form real, complex sentences.

At nineteen, his father had lost his job. It wasn't his fault, really – he was getting older, wasn't as sharp as he had been once, and could only be the sheriff of their small town for so long. But it stuck Stiles with a job he hated for three and a half years in order to pay his way through college. Back then, he'd thought that it would all be worth it.

The plan had been simple: get his diploma, get a real job, get married.

Well his diploma was still sitting under a layer of dust in its frame in a box under his bed, he'd had zero luck in the _real job_ department, and his love life was pretty much nonexistent.

Of course, his life wasn't _all_ bad.

While his job was laughable it was still a job – he was the assistant manager of Howlin' Records, which was an old record store in downtown Beacon Hills that sold dusty vinyl and battered used books, but the atmosphere was ten times better than the stuffy pizza shop he'd been stuck as a delivery boy for during college, and it paid the bills. In fact, a few months after he had started working there, he had been able to move out of his dad's house and into his own apartment, which, he'd thought, would make him way more appealing to the ladies.

But as it turned out, the only _ladies_ in his life were the overly pierced teenager that worked the register at Howlin' and the barista that he often got his coffee from at Bobby's Coffee.

He stood in line at Bobby's that very moment, staring at the selection of breakfast pastries and willing the people in front of him to _hurry the hell up_ when he noticed someone out of the corner of his eye. Beacon Hills wasn't a tiny town but after having lived there for his entire life, Stiles felt like he knew every single person there and could tell when someone seemed out of place. Usually, it didn't mean much. It was just a mental acknowledgement that yet another person had been suckered into moving into town. But this one was different.

She sat at a small, round table in the corner by the window, wearing cut-off jean shorts and combat boots despite the fact that it was beyond freezing outside, her dark brown hair just grazing her shoulders. She was pretty, way too pretty to be from around here.

She sat with her legs crossed at the knee, her foot bouncing absently, her thumbnail tucked between her teeth as she scanned a map of the city. Peeking out from beneath the map was a folded newspaper with things circled in pen. Just a second before he was being summoned to the counter, she glanced up and they made eye-contact. It was only a split second of contact, but he could already feel his skin starting to burn with embarassment. How long had he been staring? Seconds? _Minutes?_

He didn't muster up the courage to look over again until he went to pick up his coffee. By that point, she had gathered up her things and was leaving, nearly running into him as he turned around again. His coffee splashed onto his hand, narrowly missing the edge of his sleeve.

The hot liquid stung, but he barely noticed it.

"Shit, sorry," the woman admonished quickly, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder and taking a step back, giving him a significant amount of space. "I'm all over the place today."

"New in town?" Stiles asked without really thinking.

She rose an eyebrow then noticed that she was holding the map in her hand and laughed. "Uh, yeah. Just moved here yesterday and am still getting turned around everywhere I go," she explained. "I'm actually late for a meeting with my potential landlord at…" she trailed off, looking at a note she had written to herself on her palm, "1225 West Street. I _think_ it's halfway across town, though."

"What? No, it's only ten minutes from here." Stiles told her. "I'm actually on my way to work, which is in that direction. I could give you a ride." She gave him a skeptical look. "Okay, yeah, I know how that sounds – me, a total stranger, offering you a ride. But I swear, I'm not going to kidnap you or anything."

The woman grinned. "Good, because if I miss this meeting, I'm pretty much screwed." She started for the door, not wasting any time. "I'm Malia, by the way."

* * *

><p>She pulled her coat tighter around herself as they walked out of the movie theater, flecks of snow latching onto her hair and body, her cheeks reddening from the cold.<p>

The second they got to his Jeep and hopped inside, Stiles cranked the heat as far up as it could go, rubbing his hands together to get some friction going and glancing over at his wife as she busied herself with drawing obscene things on the foggy passenger side window.

"You're not _freezing_ right now?" Stiles asked, as if he hadn't realized this already after dating her for a year and a half and being married to her for two.

"Always the tone of surprise," Malia responded in amusement, sitting back in her seat and pulling on her seatbelt. "When I was little, I used to get cold really easily, but now I guess I've grown out of it. I don't really feel it anymore. I thought I told you this?"

Stiles shrugged, putting on his own seatbelt before pulling the car away from the curb and into the street. The radio was playing some poppy version of a classic Christmas song, which Malia was humming along to absently as they made their way home. They were about halfway there when Stiles finally turned the radio down, and Malia looked over at him, confused.

"Hey, I think someone's calling me. Can you get my phone out of my pocket?" Stiles asked her.

She rolled her eyes but obliged nonetheless, reaching over the center console and into his jacket pocket, fishing around for his phone. "Stiles, I don't think…" Malia trailed off when her fingers hit a smooth box, and she pulled it out, curious. She glanced at Stiles and then focused on the box, long and slender, in her hands. She opened it and inside was a gleaming silver necklace with a cursive _M_ inlaid with diamonds. "Oh my God."

Stiles pulled the car to a stop at the next stop sign, looking over at her. "Well? Do you like it?"

"Do I like it?" Malia repeated, breathless. "I love it," she told him, unbuckling her seatbelt and reaching over to kiss him. "I love _you_."

"I love you, too," Stiles replied, grinning against her lips. "Happy anniversary."

"Happy anniversary," she murmured, pulling back to gaze at him for a moment. It was only a moment, a moment where they felt totally frozen in time, totally engrossed in one another. They were too distracted by their moment to notice the headlights growing fast in the rearview mirror, the blaring horn, until the truck slammed into the back of the car and everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Strange Terrain**

Chapter Two – Waking Up

_"Hope is important because it can make the present moment less difficult to bear. If we believe that tomorrow will be better, we can bear a hardship today." – Thich Nhat Hanh_

Waking up was awful.

She remembered every single time she had had to wake up for school, for work, for some random family gathering with distant relatives she had never met before. It was always the same – she was always tired, cranky and unwilling, wanting nothing more than to return to the blissful dream that had come before she had regained consciousness and opened her eyes. Today felt something like that.

She opened her eyes slowly, the bright lights of the room seemingly too bright, making the process all the more terrible. Her whole body ached, like she had been laying in that same place for _days_. But that would never do – she always had things that needed to be done.

With that in mind, she tried opening her eyes again. When she did, she couldn't believe what she saw.

* * *

><p>When he got word that she was awake, Stiles nearly dropped the coffee that he had been nursing in the hallway – cheap, bitter coffee that came out of a machine, but that did its job in keeping him alert and competent so that he could stay for as long as possible.<p>

Ever since the accident, he had dropped everything to be by her side. Day and night he would sit there in that barely comfortable chair next to her bed, holding her hand, talking to her. It had been weeks before his friends had to come and tell him that he had to go back to work, a month before his landlord started threatening to kick him out of his apartment since he was two months behind on the rent.

So he spent less time with her during the day sometimes, but their mutual friends would always come and take his place when he wasn't there. Just to make sure Malia wasn't alone. To keep an eye on her to see if there was any change.

For weeks there wasn't. _Months_.

But today – nine weeks after some asshole had rear-ended them – _she had woken up_.

"What are you waiting for? Malia's awake!" Erica practically shouted at him, her eyes wide, expression impatient. She had moved to Beacon Hills a few weeks after Malia had, an old, hometown friend looking for a new start. She'd been the maid-of-honor at their wedding and often crashed at their apartment when she'd had too much to drink.

Stiles swallowed hard, following Erica once his brain started working again. Soon, he was walking faster than her, almost running down the hallway to Malia's hospital room. She was surrounded by people – doctors and friends alike – but Stiles pushed his way through, taking his spot by her side, taking her hand in his. But when she registered what he was doing, she immediately yanked her hand away, appalled.

The smile that had been on her face had disappeared.

"Malia, I –"

"If you think that hitting on a girl that just woke up from a coma is going to work, think again," she snapped, looking genuinely offended. An ugly bruise still stood out against her pale skin near her left temple, her split lip still in the process of healing. She looked better, but the memory of the accident was still fresh in Stiles' mind. The frantic trip to the hospital, the doctors' yelling, the blood, the fleeting idea that she might never wake up again… And here she was, _awake_. But she didn't seem to know who he was.

He couldn't tell what was worse.

"Malia, it's me. Stiles. Your husband…" he tried to explain, his eyes following hers to her left hand, which was no longer bearing their wedding band. He wondered what had happened to it. "Malia?"

"Oh, honey!"

Suddenly, two older people pushed their way through the group, the woman throwing her arms around Malia's neck and making her wince. But her expression – though wary – was less pointed than it had been with Stiles. "Hey, mom," she said once the woman had backed off. "What are you doing here? Where's Alana?"

Her mother looked taken aback. "What are we – You were in an _accident_, Malia." She told her, then added as an after-thought, "Your sister is in the waiting room with your father."

"I know I was in an accident. The doctors told me I was in a coma for a while, and _this_ guy claims that I was married to him," Malia explained, gesturing to Stiles. He felt deflated, unable to find the words to explain that his wife was, in fact, his wife. And now here he was, faced with confronting his mother-in-law who he had not, in fact, ever met before.

The older woman eyed him, her lips tightly pressed together. Then she looked back at her daughter. "I've never met this man before. If you were married, don't you think I would have _met_ your husband?" She barked out a laugh, as if not having met her daughter's husband was the most ridiculous thing she could ever conceive of.

But that was exactly what had happened.

In the three and a half years that Stiles had known Malia, he had never, not once met her parents. As far as he knew, their relationship wasn't all that great. Whenever they called her, she never answered if she was with him – which she almost always was. She'd met his dad plenty of times and seemed to love him, but never mentioned her own family or the life that she'd left behind in New York when she moved to Beacon Hills. It was like that part of her life no longer existed.

Until now.

"You're right," Malia agreed. "That doesn't make any sense."

Stiles suddenly felt his words return to him. "Now, wait a second. We were married for two years. You moved here almost four years ago, and I helped you get settled and then we started dating. Then you moved in with me." His brows furrowed. "You don't remember _any_ of this?"

Malia shrugged, but there was no sign of recognition in her eyes. Instead, he thought he saw _pity_.

* * *

><p>Stiles stood under the hot water of the shower for a long time, his eyes closed as the water poured over him, pelting his skin as he remained motionless, not making any move to wash himself.<p>

He didn't know how long he had been standing there for, but he did know one thing: his wife had no idea who he was and it was _killing_ him. This perfect, carefree, adventurous woman who had fallen for him despite the fact that he had probably made a fool of himself in front of her far too many times to count. The woman who preferred to be the big spoon over the little spoon in bed (and he didn't mind it). The woman who never seemed to dress appropriately for the weather. The woman _he had fallen in love with_.

For all he knew, she was long gone.

Stiles took a deep breath and forced himself to move. If he didn't, he would shrivel up standing there in the shower, and the water would turn cold, unpleasant. He'd had enough unpleasantness for one day.

He would have still been at the hospital if Malia's parents hadn't insisted that they would 'take care of her' and that he 'wasn't needed anymore' like a person providing a service whose job was done for the day. He had been _dismissed_. He infuriated him, but it also gave him some time to himself, time to really think about what he should do next.

He wasn't about to give up on his wife. She wouldn't have given up on him. No way.

Stiles resolved that he would go to visit her again the next day, and try again. A little bit everyday until she started to remember what her life had been like before the accident, before she had forgotten about her whole life, forgotten about him.

He shut off the water and climbed out, toweling dry and wrapping the towel around his waist. When he left the bathroom, he found the apartment eerily quiet. Of course, he had lived alone for almost five years before he had moved in with Malia, but now, not knowing if she'd ever come home, he felt even more alone than ever.

That is, until he heard the distinct clinking of glasses from the kitchen.

Furrowing his brows, Stiles headed in the direction of the sound, half-expecting his wife to appear there, somehow having remembered who he was and their life together. But instead, he found Erica sitting on a barstool in his kitchen, popping out the screw of a bottle of wine. She barely glanced up when he saw her.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles asked, almost irritated despite the fact that she knew where they kept their spare key.

"Drinking," Erica replied. "Want one?"

"Judging by the fact that you took out two glasses instead of one, it doesn't seem like you were planning on drinking alone in the first place," he pointed out.

She gave him a grim smile, pouring the dark red liquid into each of the glasses. "Well, judging by the day you just had, I thought you'd probably need a drink or two. I sure do," Erica told him. Not waiting for him, she picked up one of the glasses and downed the contents in a few quick gulps, before filling the glass again.

Stiles walked over and picked up the second glass, sitting down next to his friend. "She doesn't remember you, either?"

"Not a fucking clue," the blonde replied, a sad undertone to her voice.

He nodded and they just sat there, drinking in silence, feeling sorry for themselves. And suddenly, Stiles was glad that he wasn't alone anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

**Strange Terrain**

Chapter 3 – Lost and Found

"_If you aren't in the moment, you are either looking forward to uncertainty, or back to pain and regret." – Jim Carrey_

* * *

><p><em>She was still standing there in the middle of the empty living room of her apartment when he came back to check if there was anything else they needed to put into the van. Stiles approached her slowly, looking around as if he was just seeing it for the first time.<em>

"_It looks a lot bigger when there's nothing in it," he said, eliciting a small laugh from his girlfriend._

"_It's how it looked when I came to check it out, that day you gave me a ride to my meeting with the landlord," Malia explained, looking over at him. "I only lived here for a little over six months, the air conditioning never worked, and I swear my neighbors lost the remote to their television," she laughed again, shaking her head, "and yet it's still kind of sad to be leaving."_

_Stiles put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned her head on his. "Yeah, but think of this – you now get to wake up next to me every night instead of having to commute back and forth all the time."_

_She rolled her eyes, a grin forming on her lips. "You're an idiot."_

"_Yes, but I'm your idiot, remember?" Stiles replied, pulling her to him and capturing her lips with his. She kissed him back with a sigh, before finally looking up at him._

"_Okay. Sentimental moment has passed. Let's get out of here."_

_She didn't wait for him to respond, turning on her heel and tugging him along after her. He laughed and let her lead the way out of the apartment, and toward their future together._

* * *

><p>It had taken some serious thinking and time and a little encouragement from Erica – who seemed to have decided to camp out at his apartment for the past week – for Stiles to finally figure out what he needed to do. He wasn't giving up on his wife, but he wasn't making any progress in the hey-remember-me-your-husband department either.<p>

"You have to keep going to see her," Erica had insisted, even though she herself had decided that gluing her butt to his thrifted couch and day-drinking was more interesting than reliving her childhood.

Stiles suspected that she only encouraged him so much because she saw his life as her entertainment; it was like a reality television show and she just couldn't wait to see the outcome of it all. Would she fall for him or wouldn't she? Stay tuned.

He exhaled heavily, staring out of the windshield of his Jeep as the rain pelted the glass from outside. He had been sitting there for almost twenty minutes, the radio off, the dull pounding of the rain putting him in a trance as he contemplated starting the car and driving back home. But he also thought of the fact that Malia's family – a family he had never even known _existed_ until a week ago – was probably in there, day and night, nursing her back to health. He had been the one by her side for months before she'd woken up, but that was just the thing – she hadn't been awake. She had no recollection of him retelling old stories of their life together, holding her hand, watching her with a pained look on his face as the doctors still had no straight answer for him.

She didn't know, and she would never believe him if he tried to tell her.

She didn't know who he was at all.

From what he had discerned, and what the doctors had figured out over the past week, Malia had lost all memory of the past few years, enough that she didn't even remember moving clear across the country. In fact, despite the fact that the looks on her parents' faces were at times stressed, she didn't even seem to think they were all that bad, meaning that something had happened between them that had lit the fuse.

Something that she no longer remembered.

He couldn't change that, especially since he didn't know very much about her family or her life before she had moved to Beacon Hills, but he could try and fix the one thing he cared about more than anything: his marriage.

Stiles turned off the car and pulled the keys out of the ignition, getting out and heading across the parking lot to the building. He was soaked even in the two minutes that it had taken to get inside, but he didn't really feel it, letting his feet lead him down the same path he had walked so many times in the past few months to her room. He did what he always did – tried to think of something that he could talk about, something that might trigger some old feelings or memories that were being suppressed. For the past couple of days, he had tried everything – telling stories, showing her their wedding photos, even bringing her coffee from Bobby's, the shop where they had first met. But nothing worked.

And yet he still made himself show up. Showing up was half the battle, his dad always said.

When he walked into the room, he immediately noticed that something was different. The room was brighter, cleaner, and Malia was out of bed. She had taken to walking around recently, so that much didn't surprise him – it was the fact that her bed had been made, tucked tight with sharp corners and the pillows arranged neatly at the head, that threw him off. When he looked around, Stiles found Malia standing by the window, dressed in an oversized cardigan and distressed jeans. It was all so surreal.

"Are you leaving?" He asked, his voice cracking slightly in the middle of his question, hoarse from lack of use. Stiles cleared his throat, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.

Malia looked up at him – the same, detached look that she had given him since she'd warmed up to him, a look someone would give to a friendly stranger; he bristled – and shrugged. "Oh, yeah. I guess I am," she told him. "I'd been meaning to tell you… I felt like you should know… I don't really know why…" Malia shook her head, touching the spot on her forehead where she had a long scar extending from her hair line halfway to her eyebrow. "I've been released."

Stiles' face lit up. "That's great!" He said almost too excitedly. "I mean, you should have told me sooner, but it's fine. Everything at the apartment is exactly the way it was when you – you –" He wanted to say _'left'_, but that didn't really fit.

"Stiles," she said gently, moving towards him slowly. He frowned, not liking the tone that she used. Like she was about to tell him something he wouldn't want to hear. "I'm actually going home. Like, _home_, home."

"You mean… You're going back to New York?" The words were thick in his mouth. He felt like he was going to throw up. "But you can't. You haven't lived there in almost four years – this is your home!"

"I knew you were going to say that," Malia replied, shaking her head. "I shouldn't have told you. I don't even know why I did."

Stiles walked towards her, almost grabbing her shoulders, but refraining. "You told me because you care about me. Somewhere, deep down inside of yourself, you _know_ you cared about me once. You can feel it. I know you can."

"No._ I don't know you_ –"

"Yes you do! You met me at a coffee shop called Bobby's, and two days later I took you on our first date. It was to my favorite pizza place in Beacon Hills. It was snowing when we first kissed, that same night."

Malia shoved him away from her, shaking her head. "Stop. Just stop. I don't want to hear any more of your stories –"

"They're true –"

"Get out – Nurse! – I want you to shut up and get out!"

Stiles felt his blood pressure rising, wanting to yell back at her but knowing that he shouldn't. The doctors had told him not to press her too hard, since it might upset or frustrate her. Yelling at her would only make things worse…

He took a deep breath and suddenly, something clicked. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and quickly navigated to what he wanted, moving cautiously toward her again but allowing a wide berth.

"Listen to this," Stiles insisted, holding out the phone. Malia opened her mouth to protest, her face red with impatience, but he interrupted her before she could protest. "Just listen to this and I'll go. If you want me to, I will."

Malia just looked at him for a long moment, not saying anything, not moving. She searched his face, considering, before finally sighing and, shaking her head, taking the phone from him. She held it up to her ear and listened. Stiles watched her, holding his breath the way he always did when he showed her something in the hopes of it making a world of difference. For a while, her face remained impassive, even a little impatient. But the longer she listened, the more her expression changed, the more it _softened_. And he knew then that something big was about to happen.

When she was done, she stared at the phone, before looking up at him again. "That was my voice," she said. "I – why did I send that to you?" She seemed genuinely intrigued.

Stiles exhaled, then swallowed hard, preparing to speak. "A few months after we started dating, we got into a really big fight. Like, earth-shatteringly big. We both said a lot of things we didn't mean, and long story short you felt like the biggest fuck-up ever" – Malia let a laugh escape her involuntarily, clearly recalling the phrase from the message – "and left me that voice message in the middle of the night." He shrugged. "Of course, I forgave you. A few weeks after that, we moved in together."

"Wow," was all Malia could manage to say, finally allowing herself to absorb what he had to say.

The stories, they were just that. _Stories_. The pictures could have easily been Photoshopped – they did live in a digitally complex world, after all. But this – hearing her own voice on the phone of a guy she really did not believe she knew – it felt real. For the first time since she'd woken up, something about this guy felt real.

She handed his phone back, before sighing again. "Okay," she said. "I won't go back to New York."

"What?" Stiles blurted, caught off guard.

"You heard me," Malia replied. "If we were really _together_ like you say we were, I want to try and figure it all out and I can't do that if I'm on the other side of the country."

Stiles just blinked, unable to form the words that he wanted to say fast enough. She was moving around the room, throwing her scarce belongings into a small overnight bag, before moving past him toward the door. It was only then that he turned and said, "Wait, where are you going?"

She stopped, looking back at him with her hand on the door frame. "To tell my parents that I'm staying with you." And then she was gone.

But this time he wasn't worried because he knew she would be back. And he wasn't about to lose her again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Strange Terrain**

Chapter 4 – Strangers

"_You can't let one bad moment spoil a bunch of good ones." – Dale Earnhardt_

In the few hours that it had taken for Malia to explain to her parents that she had, in fact, decided to stay in Beacon Hills with Stiles – they hadn't believed that she'd come up with the idea on her own, constantly accusing him of foul play – Erica, it seemed, had had a change of heart about her childhood friend.

He suspected that maybe the alcohol that flowed through her veins had been a big part in that change, but sometime between when Stiles had called her to fill her in (and get her to go home) and the drive back to his apartment, she had organized a _party_. Of course, she had waited until the last minute to text him, when he couldn't check his phone since he was kind of occupied with getting Malia home safe, letting him know that it was 'just a small thing' and 'not to freak out.'

His throat was dry and his palms sweaty, his eyes glued to the screen of his phone as he tried not to make a scene. Malia had already opened the passenger side door, but stopped when she saw him still sitting there.

"Is something wrong?" She asked, her eyebrows pulling together.

"What? No!" He said too quickly, before swallowing and squeezing his eyes shut. "Actually, yes. Don't hate me – seriously, it wasn't even my idea –"

"Just spit it out."

"Our – Erica decided to throw you a welcome home party," Stiles explained slowly. "She says it's just a small thing, a bunch of our closest friends, but I don't know… when she puts her mind to something…" He rolled his eyes, but when he looked over at her, he could tell that she really didn't know what he was talking about. It was strange, since she had known Erica longer than she had known him, but maybe it was just another side effect of her injury. "Nevermind."

Malia processed what he'd said for a minute, before shrugging. "I can handle it."

"Malia –"

"Come on. We'd better not keep everyone waiting," she insisted, finally climbing out of the car and slamming the door behind her before he could get a word in.

Before he could warn her that this was probably a very, very bad idea.

* * *

><p>"I can't believe you," Stiles muttered as he passed Erica on his way back from the bathroom.<p>

The party was not, in fact, just a gathering of their closest friends. There were about a dozen people from various parts of their life – he'd seen his co-workers from Howlin', a woman who had been a waitress with Malia during her first year in Beacon Hills, their next door neighbor (who had invited himself), and a handful of people that he only sort of recognized – milling about, eating his food, drinking his beer. But that wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was that he could see that it was slowly taking its toll on Malia.

She had been doing fine for the first hour or so, greeting people politely, being totally blunt about not remembering who they were, answering questions, moving on. He had tried to give her some space, mostly hovering around Erica and his friends from work, eying Greenberg (The Guy Next Door) to make sure he didn't steal anything.

But even for him, it was all becoming a bit much.

She had only just left the hospital a few _hours_ ago, after all.

"What? It's not _that_ bad," Erica insisted. "And besides, it looks like Malia's having fun. She hasn't come over to talk to me yet, but hey, she's having fun." She shrugged like she didn't care. Stiles knew she did.

"That's because she doesn't remember you."

"Whatever," she replied, waving her hand dismissively and taking another swig of beer.

Stiles rolled his eyes, and was about to open his mouth to retort when all of a sudden something smashed to the floor and Malia was _yelling_.

"Enough!" She was saying, the heels of her hands pressed to her temples like if she moved them her head would explode from all of the pressure. There were three people standing in front of her, their eyes wide like everyone else's. The seemed taken aback. "Just stop trying to force me to understand or to remember because I can't. I can't, okay? So _stop_ _trying_."

"Hold on –"

"Don't touch me!" Malia snapped, backing away from the person.

Instinctively, Stiles moved towards her, put his arm around her and steered her away from the people that she had just been berating. "Alright, everyone, party's over." He glanced at Erica. "You too. Out."

Erica shook her head, but she followed the rest of the party goers out of the apartment and shut the door behind her.

A few hours later, Malia is showered and getting re-settled in their bedroom while Stiles makes up a bed on the couch. It still feels strange, even though it had been his suggestion in the first place in order to accommodate her state of mind, and he finds himself wondering if things will ever get back to the way they were.

When he finished brushing his teeth, flicking off the light, he heard her talking to someone on the phone in the room. Curious (or just nosey), he paused, listening.

"…I don't _know_ why, Alana. None of this makes any sense," she was saying. "One day I'm engaged to one guy and the next I'm waking up from a coma to _another_ guy telling me I'm married…"

Stiles furrowed his eyebrows, not fully understanding for a second. If she had been engaged before she had come to Beacon Hills, why wouldn't she have told him that? Past relationships were supposed to be shared with your current one. It was like an unspoken rule.

"There's something you're not telling me… What do you mean, mom's calling you? Alana, I swear to – Alana!" Malia groaned and there was a thud, like she'd tossed her phone onto the bed out of frustration. Stiles was still reeling from the fact that she had been engaged before, still stuck on the fact that this was the second piece of information that had been kept from him for almost four years.

He wondered what else she hadn't told him about.

Slowly, he forced himself to move from the spot he'd been standing in for almost a full five minutes and go back to the living room. He laid down and stared up at the ceiling for what seemed like hours, his mind reeling.

He didn't sleep at all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Strange Terrain**

Chapter 5 – Lost

* * *

><p>"<em>The moment there is suspicion about a person's motives, everything he does becomes tainted." –Mahatma Ghandi<em>

"Maybe it was just a misunderstanding," reasoned Scott as he poured Stiles another drink – he had been hesitant, since it wasn't even noon yet, but he was pressured by the death glares that his best friend would shoot him when he didn't comply with his wishes.

After a long night of no sleep, all Stiles had wanted to do was get drunk and rant.

He swirled the amber liquid around in the tumbler that sat on the counter in front of him, staring blankly at the motion, deep in thought. His eyes stung from the lack of sleep. All he could think about was the fact that there was some other guy – some other _fiance_ out there that Malia remembered loving while she remembered nothing about her current _husband_. It made him sick, made him want to punch things, made him want to scream. But he had done none of those things, too tired and confused to figure out what to do.

So instead he had chosen to warm a bar stool at the bar that one of his best friends from high school was practically the owner of. It wasn't some dive bar with sticky floors and sketchy lighting and even sketchier people lurking in the shadows.

Scott had gotten the crazy idea to buy the bar and fix it up right out of college and it had actually turned out to be a pretty respectable place. Clean, friendly, comfortable enough for Stiles to actually roll out of bed and come there to wallow in self-pity. He could feel his friend's eyes on him as he took a swig of his drink.

"What?" Stiles demanded.

"I think you're being too hard on yourself –"

"See, that's what I love about you – but also hate about you, Scott. You're always looking on the bright side of things. But what if there's no bright side? What if this is it? What if it was a sign that maybe I'm not cut out to be somebody's husband?" He let out a grim laugh and shook his head, staring down at his drink again. He wanted to cry.

Scott sighed. "Well, have you at least talked to her about this guy?"

"No," Stiles muttered miserably.

"You're not going to know anything for sure until you do," he pointed out.

"Yeah, but that's another thing – I don't know anything about her life before she came here. Like, zilch. She told me _nothing_." He explained, exasperated, like he had been over this a million times before (which he had). "I didn't even know she had parents. Or a sister. I told her everything!"

Scott's brows pulled together in thought. "Who was that who walked her down the aisle at your wedding?"

"_My_ dad, Scott."

"Weird."

"Really fucking weird."

Scott shrugged. "You still need to talk to her."

Stiles rolled his eyes, tossing back the rest of his drink before pushing the empty glass towards his friend. "What I _need_ is another one."

"It's not even noon yet. Have you eaten?" Scott inquired.

Instead of giving him a straight answer, Stiles muttered a noncommital "sure" before looking away at the large windows that dominated the front of the bar. Outside, it was sunny and there were some people walking around, chatting amongst themselves, poking their heads into the shops that lined the street. He sighed mournfully, remembering all the times that he had walked down that street with Malia, trying and failing at holding her hand as she gesticulated constantly, moving so rapidly it was nearly impossible to keep up with her.

_Malia came to sudden halt outside the window of an old bookstore, gazing in through the window at the assortment of battered hardbacks and colorful covers of the books that were on display. She grinned, like a kid outside of a candy store._

"_This is amazing," she said._

"_Have you never seen a used book store or something?" Stiles asked in disbelief, moving to stand right next to her, their arms brushing slightly._

_She shrugged, looking over at him. "Well I'm from a big city. Everything's usually new and expensive out there. It's all so… homey here. Especially the people." She nudged his arm with her elbow, smirking as their eyes met for a long moment._

_It was times like that when Stiles felt like he could do anything – like lean in and kiss her, spontaneous and romantic, like something out of a book. But he had kissed her before, so it shouldn't have been such a mental process. It should have been automatic, like grabbing her hand while they were walking or putting his arm around her shoulders when they were watching TV. He shouldn't have had to think about it at all, but he couldn't help it. His eyes drifted to her lips, full and pink from the excessive sun exposure, and he got caught up in wondering if she'd even like it – had she even liked it the first time they'd kissed? – or if she'd just laugh and continue walking or if some old woman would berate him for the public display of affection. The list went on and on._

_He stood there contemplating for so long that he always missed his chance to do something, anything, and Malia would insist that they keep moving, keep seeing the sights. And he would oblige._

But Stiles couldn't help but smile a little to himself; that was what made her so interesting. Seeing her so excited about life all the time made him just a little more hopeful and content with his own life.

He had never been happier than when he had been with her.

"Hey, isn't that –"

Stiles blinked and realized what Scott was pointing out: outside was his wife, wandering around looking very confused and talking frantically to someone on the phone. He glanced at Scott, who gave him a look that said, "You know what you need to do."

"But can't I just sit here and drink more and forget that I saw her?" Stiles asked, hunching down over the counter and burying his face in his hands.

"Well I'm not pouring you anymore drinks, so no," Scott told him, but turned away before Stiles could hit him with another lethal glare. Groaning, Stiles took a deep breath before sliding off his stool and walking to the door.

By the time he had gotten outside, Malia had walked almost a block down the road, still looking around and, presumably, trying to figure out where she was and how she'd gotten there.

"Hey!" Stiles called, making her jump when he caught up to her.

"Oh, good, it's you – Mom? Yeah, I'm fine. Can I call you back? – I'm _fine_. Bye." Malia hung up, despite the fact that he could distinctly hear her mother still talking when she hit the red button. "I saw the receipt for a coffee shop – the Bobby's place you mentioned one day – and thought I'd see if I could find it. You know, since it was once my favorite place to go. Right?"

"Yeah," he replied with a nod. "So, uh, did you find it?"

Malia shook her head, running her fingers through her hair. "No. I got really turned around and couldn't even remember my way back. I couldn't remember your number so I just panicked and called my mom."

"Isn't she back in New York?"

"About that…" Malia trailed off, giving Stiles an apologetic look. "My parents want to take us out to dinner."

"Malia –"

"I know it's weird – don't you think I would know that? – but they're insisting since I was insisting that I should stay with you for a while. They're only here for the weekend so it would be really great if you said yes," she explained.

Stiles took a deep breath and exhaled again, trying to keep himself from saying anything stupid. With the alcohol very present in his veins, it was hard to keep it together. His mind kept going back to the fiance thing, and imagining some faceless man groping his wife.

But somehow, he managed.

"Sure," Stiles finally said. "I mean, how bad could it be?"

"Great!" Malia replied. "Now can you please show me how to get back to the apartment? I am shit with directions."

Stiles felt himself relax for the first time all day. He smiled to himself. "Yeah, I know."


	6. Chapter 6

**Strange Terrain**

Chapter 6 – Truth

"_Remember not only to say the right thing in the right place, but far more difficult still, to leave unsaid the wrong thing at the tempting moment." –Benjamin Franklin_

Stiles adjusted his tie as he eyed the menu warily, barely registering any of the conversation going on at the table around him. He only owned one tie, and had really tried to talk Malia out of making him wear it, but she had insisted, and even now he found it impossible to let her down.

Her parents had decided to take them to one of the higher end restaurants in Beacon Hills, complete with screeching violins and a menu full of things that he could neither pronounce nor afford. Stiles glanced over at Malia to guage how she was feeling about the whole ordeal – she had always made fun of places like this, refusing to let Stiles take her out on nice, cliché dates – but she seemed comfortable, chatting in hushed tones with her sister. Alana was tall and slender, with a pretty face that resembled her sister's in a few obvious ways. He liked her; she hadn't been casting nearly as many dirty looks his way as her father had been.

"Isaac has been asking about you," her mother finally said, causing the glass of wine in Malia's hand to nearly slip. Stiles' mouth went dry as he realized who this person was.

"Mom –"

"I just don't understand what happened. You leave New York for this _place_ and shack up with this _guy_, all without a single explanation," Mrs. Tate continued, shaking her head. Her cheeks were slightly pink, probably from drinking so much before dinner had even been ordered.

Malia rolled her eyes, setting the glass down. "You're talking to the person who just two weeks ago woke up from a coma with a huge chunk of her memory missing. If anyone should know what's going it would be you." She pointed out. "Besides," she went on, glancing at Stiles for the tiniest of seconds, "I don't want to talk to Isaac."

Stiles wasn't sure, but it seemed like she was intentionally trying to hide something from him. The very thing that he already knew about. But she didn't know that, so she was clearly hiding it for a reason.

Maybe she felt sorry for him.

He set his menu down, no longer hungry, and reached for his beer. He had never been much of a wine guy.

"He misses you, Malia. You just picked up and left him out of the blue. Don't you think he at least deserves to hear why from you?"

"It wasn't out of the blue, mother," Malia said, clearly exasperated.

Mrs. Tate sat forward, reaching out to touch her daughter's hand. "Just call him –"

"Stop!" She shouted just loud enough to startle the people sitting in the immediate vicinity. But she didn't seem to notice that she was making a scene. Malia pushed her chair back and headed toward the restroom without another word, leaving her mother gaping and taken aback. Alana got up and followed her sister, and a few minutes later, her mother followed suit.

Stiles exhaled, his eyes trailing back to the table to find Malia's father staring at him. He lowered his beer from his lips, suddenly forgetting how to swallow.

He wished Malia would come back already.

"You need to leave her," Mr. Tate said without pretense. He wasn't exactly the most intimidating-looking man; he was broad shouldered and had a thick mustache, deep set eyes, and a stern look on his face. It was the words that came out of him that frightened Stiles.

"What?"

"My daughter. Whatever you're playing at, it needs to stop."

Stiles frowned. "I'm not _playing at_ anything. Your daughter is my wife –"

"You saw what just happened. She's confused, and you're the reason why. Before she moved here, she was perfectly happy. She had everything going for her. She was engaged to the perfect gentleman. And now she's with _you_." He spat. "Waking up and seeing you there, that confused her. She thinks she owes something to you, and she doesn't."

The more the man spoke, the more angry Stiles got. He suddenly didn't care who he was talking to. "Have you ever thought about why she left? Have you ever thought that maybe she was happier here than when she was back in New York? Maybe it's not me at all. Maybe it's _you_."

Mr. Tate ground his teeth together, preparing to retaliate, but then Malia appeared in a hurry, grabbing her coat. His expression immediately softened. "Where are you going?"

"Home," Malia shot back, not even looking at her father. She added to Stiles, "You coming?"

At first, Stiles wondered if she was just asking him if he was coming because she still didn't know how to get back on her own. But then he saw the pleading look in her eyes and forgot about that theory. He started to stand up, grabbing his coat as her mom and sister returned. Someone approached the table then, a tall, blonde guy that seemed out of place, with his blue jeans and quarter-zip NYU pullover. Malia turned around then, and immediately took a step back when she saw him, running into Stiles.

"Who is that?" he asked.

"Isaac."

Almost an entire half hour had passed since Malia had agreed to talk to Isaac outside of the restaurant, accompanied by her parents who were acting as mediators. Stiles stared at them through the window, trying to imagine what was going on.

"Want one?" A french fry was suddenly in his line of vision, being brandished by Malia's younger sister, who had remained at the table. "Seriously, take it. You look like shit."

"Uh, thanks," Stiles said, taking the warm fry and popping it into his mouth. "I can't believe you actually ordered something."

Alana shrugged, swirling another french fry in her ketchup. "I was promised dinner, not an evening of drama." She looked over at the window, shaking her head. "I can't believe they invited him. She wasn't happy with him, and they refuse to see it."

"What?"

"Oh yeah, she didn't tell you," Alana said. "Well Isaac was a friend of the family, like my parents knew his parents and were trying to make this big business deal with them. And suddenly mom was insisting that Malia talk to him and get to know him, and then they were dating, and by the end of college they were engaged. It was all too fast for Malia. Once she found out what was going on, she cut her losses and split. I don't blame her." She nonchalantly took a bite out of her french fry and took a gulp of her Coke to wash it down. Stiles was amazed.

But he knew exactly where she got it from.

"She was a lot happier with you, you know," Alana continued. "I keep trying to tell her, but you know how she gets."

"Yeah, I do," Stiles finally managed to say, glancing back at the window. "They really told that Isaac guy to come here?"

"Yep."

"Your dad tried to force me to divorce Malia."

Alana barked a laugh, shaking her head. "Not surprised." She rose an eyebrow. "So are you gonna do it?"

"Hell no."

"I like you already."

When they got back to the apartment, Malia dropped her purse on the floor by the door and kicked off her heels, breathing a sigh of relief as her bare feet touched the hardwood floor. "That was bad. Like, really fucking awful." Malia ran her fingers through her hair, turning to face Stiles. "I can't believe my parents would do that. I left him for a reason."

Stiles quirked a brow. "So you remember what it was?"

"Well, no, but whenever I hear his name I get a bad feeling. Even Alana seems put off whenever his name comes up," Malia explained. She shook her head. "Know what? I don't care. I don't want to talk about him anymore."

"Good, 'cause I don't want to hear about him anymore."

Stiles headed towards the bathroom, but suddenly she grabbed his wrist, holding him back. It was a shock, since this was the first contact they'd had since she'd woken up. He held her gaze for a long moment, swallowing, waiting for the next move. She ran her tongue along her bottom lip, slow and calculating, moving closer to him. It seemed like forever before she pressed her lips to his softly, hesitantly, almost as if she were testing the waters.

But then she pulled back, her eyes wide. "Fuck, sorry –"

"No, don't be," Stiles told her, and then another second passed before he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back to him with a little more force. He kissed her again, exhaling hard through his nose, their teeth clacking and mouths unrelenting.

She kissed him back with equal fervor, her hands sliding underneath his jacket and pushing it off his shoulders, down his arms, and to the floor. Stiles moved forward until her back was against the door, pinning her there as she continued to rip at his clothes, discarding his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, fingers moving at speeds he hadn't experienced in far too long. He kissed her harder, tasting the bitterness of wine and the saltiness of fries. His hands moved down her thighs, then back up to her backside, pushing up the hem of her dress and exposing her lower half for the first time in months.

She pushed her hips against his, rubbing just enough to get him excited, making him push back as she removed his shirt. Eventually, he caught hold of the fabric of her dress and pulled up until he could pull it over her head and toss it aside, his mouth capturing hers once more as he picked her up and moved to the couch. A lamp crashed to the floor in the process, bulb shattering everywhere. Malia laughed; Stiles cursed under his breath as he laid her on the couch.

He kissed her neck, his hands exploring her body as he hovered over her and she made quick work of his belt and the button of his khakis, pulling down the zipper. She had always been prone to rushing things, but something in Stiles' head made him realize that this was not the same person that he had been doing this with for almost four years.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Stiles found himself asking, pulling back to look her in the eyes.

"Yes," Malia replied breathlessly, her eyes sincere. There was something about the way that she looked at him now that was different from how she had looked at him that first day when she'd woken up. It made him pause for a second, a glimmer of hope. But only a second. "Get down here," she ordered, pulling him back into the kiss.

He didn't talk anymore for the rest of the night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Strange Terrain**

Chapter 7 – Fight or Flight

_Malia climbs into bed beside him, and he automatically rolls onto his side, his body fitting perfectly next to hers. She shifts until she's right up against him, her back against his front, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist. They both exhale, allowing their bodies to relax, to slip into the blissful oblivion of sleep._

_But then Stiles starts to lose feeling in the arm he's laying on._

_He's never perfected the art of spooning; there's never been a comfortable way of dealing with the arm he's laying on, and if there has been, he hasn't found it yet. Stiles tries to move it in the most subtle of ways, not wanting to disturb Malia, but after a while it becomes too much._

"_What is it, Stiles?" she asks, exasperated._

"_Uh…" he hesitates, unsure of whether or not to tell her that he's uncomfortable. She always looks like she is, so he never wants to make her move. But sometimes it just comes out. Especially when she starts staring him down. "It's just… my arm…"_

_He can practically hear Malia rolling her eyes at him as she promptly rolls over onto her other side, resting her head on his shoulder once he's turned onto his back. Stiles sighs, shutting his eyes tight and trying to will himself to get comfortable and go to sleep. But he never sleeps on his back, and even more, he's no longer in the middle of the bed, which he always used to be when he slept alone._

_Everything's wrong._

_Apparently, Malia can sense it and she groans. "Stiles."_

"_I'm fine. It's fine."_

"_No it isn't," she says, forcing a tired laugh. "You are so picky."_

"_I swear I'm not. It's just… I'm not used to sleeping with another person. But it's not your fault, like, at all. I swear. Just go to sleep." Stiles shifts again, adjusting his pillow._

"_I'm not going to be able to sleep if you keep squirming like that."_

"_Okay, I'll stop." He makes a point to lay very still. Malia quirks a brow._

_She then shakes her head, propping herself on her elbow. "Uh-uh, turn over." She orders. Stiles gives her a wary look, but her look wins as usual, and he's flipping onto his side, his back to her. She situates herself behind him, becoming the big spoon. "How's this?"_

_He frowns at first, not exactly happy with the arrangement. But the second he opens his mouth, he can feel himself starting to drift off. "Well, I don't know…" and his words turn into snores, and Malia smiles, burying her face in his hair._

* * *

><p>When Stiles woke up, he was in a state of panic.<p>

He was lying in his bed, half-naked and alone, despite the fact that he had fallen asleep with Malia right next to him. He was panicking because she could have gone out without him and gotten lost again on her way back, or worse – she could have left him for good. Gone back to New York with her family, never to return again.

Stiles shook his head, scrambling out of the bed in a tangled mess of sheets and limbs as he made his way to the door and down the hallway. He came to a halt when he reached the kitchen.

Malia looked up at him, spooning cereal out of a ceramic bowl. She was wearing one of his t-shirts. It was too big and had the Star Wars logo on it. Stiles didn't say anything as he walked into the room, grabbed a glass and filled it with water. He could feel her eyes on him the whole time.

"Look, about last night –"

"I know what you're thinking," Malia said finally. "But I still don't remember you… us. It's not for lack of trying, I swear. It's just that whenever I try to figure it all out, everything's still fuzzy. Like, really bad cable fuzzy." She managed a small laugh, looking down at her cereal. Stiles watched her for a moment, unsure of what to say.

He sighed. "I don't expect you to figure it all out right now," Stiles admitted.

"And what if I never figure it out? What if all this" – she gestured at her head – "is permanent? What if I never really remember any of it?"

Stiles didn't say anything as he took a sip of his water. He knew what he felt – that his entire world would come crashing down if she didn't remember anything about the last four years – but he couldn't tell her that. She seemed stressed enough about the whole situation, and he knew that pushing her more wouldn't help.

"Hey, let's not talk about this right now, okay? We're going to be late," Malia told him, finishing off her cereal in a few bites and setting her bowl in the sink. Stiles looked confused as she walked past him to the bedroom.

"Late for what?"

* * *

><p>"You're getting married?"<p>

Alana laughed, nearly choking on her glass of champagne as she rolled her eyes at Stiles. She stuck her left hand in his face and wiggled the fingers, showing off her ring. "No, I just like to throw bridal showers sometimes. Do you people out here in _Cali_ not do that?"

Stiles shook his head. "I'm afraid we're just not as sophisticated as you New Yorkers." He smirked, looking around the room.

The bridal shower was a modest affair which took place in the ballroom of the swankiest hotel that San Diego had to offer. Once again, Stiles was in his nicest clothes and stuck in a room with Malia's family, but at least now he didn't feel as out of place as before. Her parents hadn't shown up yet, and Alana was graciously filling him in on the whole wedding thing.

Apparently, her parents were originally in California because of the wedding, and Malia's accident had just been a coincidence. Alana didn't mind; she had arranged to have the wedding pushed back until she was sure that her maid of honor would be healthy enough to participate.

Now, the wedding would be taking place in two weeks.

Yet another thing that his wife had neglected to tell him about. Once again, Stiles found himself wondering what else Malia was keeping from him.

"Oh, fuck. Don't look."

Stiles looked. Across the room, Malia's parents were greeting some of the guests, flanked by a much more dapper-looking Isaac. Stiles immediately felt his blood start to boil. Alana moved into his line of vision. "I told you _not_ to look, dumbass."

He wasn't paying attention to her anymore. "I should talk to him."

"No, you shouldn't. There will be no drama today. This is _my_ day."

"Alana –"

The younger Tate looked around quickly, before grabbing Scott by the arm and dragging him out of his conversation to keep Stiles company. Erica joined them, nursing a beer and looking bored. "I swear to God if you do anything stupid I will never forgive you." And then Alana put on a grin and went over to speak with her fiance.

Stiles was still glaring in Isaac's direction.

"What is she talking about?" Scott inquired.

Erica nodded towards Malia's ex-fiance. "See that guy over there? Apparently he almost married Malia once upon a time. Ever since she woke up from her coma and he showed up, it's been a shit show for Stiles."

"Thanks," Stiles said dryly.

"Anytime."

"So does that mean you finally got around to talking to Malia?"

Erica shrugged. "Yeah, we've talked. She seems to remember some things about me, which is a relief. It's a work in progress."

"Well, progress is progress, right?" Stiles offered.

She shrugged again, taking a swig of her beer. When Stiles looked back toward Isaac, the man was gone. It took him a minute before he could locate him again, and when he did, his face fell. He was with Malia now, standing too close and whispering in her ear. Stiles was torn between throwing up and wanting to punch something.

Before his friends could register what was happening, Stiles had started moving towards Isaac, blinded by his utter disgust, and caught up with him once he had moved on from Malia.

"She really is something, isn't she?" Isaac was saying, taking a swig of his drink. It smelled strongly of bourbon.

Stiles replied smoothly, "Oh yeah, Alana's great. Can you believe she's getting married to Jeremy? She's way out of his league." He laughed, shaking his head, watching Isaac out of the corner of his eye.

The blonde chuckled. "He's a lucky guy, but I wasn't talking about her," he explained. "I meant her sister Malia. We were supposed to be married once, you know? She was perfect. Incredibly hot, smart, crazy in bed… What I wouldn't do to have her again…"

Stiles snapped then, turning and punching in one swift motion. Everything happened so fast – his fist connected with Isaac's jaw once, then again; he heard gasps and glass breaking; his hand was throbbing.

As he was being pulled away from Isaac, he could have sworn he saw the guaranteed look of disappointment on Alana's face.


	8. Chapter 8

**Strange Terrain**

Chapter 8 – Circling the Drain

When he got her voicemail again, he didn't hesitate before hanging up and pressing redial. At this point, Stiles couldn't tell you how many times he had done this; he'd lost track after four.

He exhaled heavily as he leaned against the counter across from the refrigerator, on which a single yellow sticky note bore the message that he had committed to memory from the second he had noticed it that morning:

_Going to stay with parents for a while. Need to think. –M_

Stiles knew that he had been a little reckless the night before, but that Isaac guy had deserved every blow he had delivered. No matter what the circumstances were, Malia was still his _wife_, and he had no right to be talking the way that he had been. He hadn't even really felt bad about any of it until he'd woken up and found the note; even now, he wondered if he should really apologize at all.

But then he remembered Alana's face, and the fact that Malia wouldn't even look at him – rushing instead to her ex-beau's side. Scott and Erica had been the ones to get Stiles back to his apartment, but he hadn't let them stay, hoping that Malia would come home soon and let him explain.

She'd never shown up. And now he knew why.

After Malia refused to answer her phone for the millionth time, Stiles hung up and nearly slammed his phone down on the counter top. He didn't know what to do – he knew virtually nothing about Malia's family, and at this point they all probably hated him for causing a scene. Maybe this was it. Maybe she really wasn't going to come back.

Maybe it was over.

He considered his options for another minute, before picking up his phone again and dialing a new number.

* * *

><p>"Divorce papers?" Scott said, his shock clear in both his face and his tone. "Are you sure you want to do this?"<p>

Stiles looked back down at the stack of papers in front of him on the table, staring at them as though it were the first time he was seeing them. He had called his lawyer and, after some serious internal debate, he had set up a meeting and gotten the papers. With a heavy sigh, Stiles shrugged, "Do I have a choice?"

"You always have choice –"

"Malia hasn't returned my calls in two days, Scott. And she still doesn't remember anything about us. Maybe it's time."

Scott shook his head, tossing a dishtowel over his shoulder and leaning his forearms on the counter as he leaned towards his friend. "Look, this isn't you. You wouldn't even be having these thoughts if it hadn't been for Malia's dad threatening you over dinner." He rolled his eyes at the memory. "Just give her some time. She'll come back."

Stiles didn't look up from the documents. "You don't know that."

His friend doesn't offer anymore advice then, just pulling out a large bottle and pouring Stiles a drink on the house. He slides it across the counter and then leaves him to wallow in his self-pity.

* * *

><p>A few weeks later, Alana is married and Malia returns back to New York with her family, where her old bedroom is waiting for her, still the same as it had been when she'd left all those years ago.<p>

She stood in front of the floor length mirror hanging on the back of the bathroom door, dragging a brush through her hair slowly, her eyes flickering every once in a while to the stack of papers sitting on the corner of the bathroom sink. _Divorce_ papers.

Stiles had sent them along with her when she had seen him the one time, right before catching her flight back to New York, since he had attacked Isaac at Alana's bridal shower. That had been two weeks ago, and yet, she still hadn't signed them. There really shouldn't have been anything to think about; he was just the guy that had been sitting next to her hospital bed when she'd woken up from a coma, the guy claiming to have been her husband for years.

She hadn't really felt connected to him in the weeks that she had spent sharing an apartment with him, but something didn't feel right about signing. Something deep down inside was stopping her.

"Malia, what are you doing up there? You're going to be late!"

The brunette jumped so suddenly that she dropped her brush with a loud clatter against the tile floor, and she had to scramble to pick it up and grab the papers from the sink as she moved back into her bedroom. "Coming!" She shouted back to her mother, who had made a point to wait for her every morning since she'd gotten home and make sure she made it to class. Malia gave one final glance at the divorce papers before shoving them into a drawer in her desk and snatching up her textbooks.

In five minutes tops she was heading out of the house, taking the front steps of their brownstone two at a time in her sleek grey pumps and hurrying down the street.

Despite the fact that she was tight on time, Malia couldn't help but stop at her usual coffee shop on the way to class, shuffling around her things in order to access her wallet at the bottom of her bag. By the time she had fished it out to pay, someone had appeared next to her.

"Allow me," the woman said with a pleasant smile, handing the cash over to the barista.

Malia blinked. "Crystal?"

The woman turned back towards Malia and something in her expression darkened slightly, her hand on her shoulder steering her away from the counter. "I thought you moved?" Crystal said.

"Well, yeah, I guess I did, but I'm back," she explained. "I actually have class in a few minutes."

"The law school took you back just like that? Wow, that's amazing," the woman replied brightly, but then she seemed to remember something and took a step closer, lowering her voice. "Look, Malia, I just wanted to say I'm really sorry."

Malia had pulled out her phone, finding a missed call from Stiles. "About what?" She asked distractedly, before shaking it off and shoving her phone back into her jacket pocket.

"Your dad? I mean, I'm not sorry for having feelings for him but I _am_ sorry for all of the stress that it has put on your family." Crystal told her. "It's crazy how things can change, isn't it?"

She just stood there for a long moment, staring at this woman that she barely remembered. Crystal was a little taller than Malia, with curly brown hair and full, red lips. She was definitely pretty, very pretty, and younger than her mom, but probably older than Malia herself. But all she could do was stare, almost gaping, so long that she didn't hear her name being called to get her coffee.

"Uh, Malia, I think –"

"Just _shut up_," Malia snapped loudly. "Just stop… talking…"

"Malia –"

She shook off the hand that the woman tried to put on her arm, turning on her heel and almost running out of the coffee shop without another word.

When she got back home, she threw open the door and started calling out for someone, anyone to give her some answers. Her face was hot with anger, with betrayal, with something familiar that she couldn't quite put her finger on. She threw her bag down by the door, pacing back and forth as she tried to control her breathing.

"Malia? I thought you went to class –"

"Where is dad? I need to talk to him." Her mother started to open her mouth to respond, but Malia was quick to cut across her. "Don't tell me that he's working, because that's always your excuse. I haven't seen him since we got back, and we've been back for almost a whole week. Where _is_ he?"

"Malia, please –"

"I saw _Crystal_. I know what happened."

Mrs. Tate pressed her lips together, trying to decide what to say. But they both knew that the game was up. "You're right, honey. We haven't been completely honest with you, but we thought – well, we thought that it was better that you didn't remember. That maybe you'd stay here, in New York, and finish your degree –"

"Mom!"

"Honey, your father doesn't live here anymore." Her mother said quickly. "I'm so sorry."

Malia couldn't breathe. Before her mother could cross the room to her, she had already thrown open the front door again and ran back outside, ignoring the pain that shot through her feet or the burning in her throat from the cold air.

She just kept running.


	9. Chapter 9

**Strange Terrain**

Chapter 9 – Recovery

_"We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone." -Orson Welles_

* * *

><p>Bobby's was nearly empty on the dreary Thursday afternoon that Stiles had decided to stop in. He hadn't really wanted anything, except to escape the torrential downpour outside and to clear his head.<p>

Even weeks later, he still couldn't get her out of his thoughts.

At least now he was spending most of his time brooding at a corner table by the window in the coffee shop and not drowning his sorrows in booze. Scott was probably grateful; Stiles crowding his bar every time he was feeling upset was most likely bad for business.

Bobby's was nice. It had that old coffee shop smell, the air thick with the scent of ground coffee beans and freshly baked pastries, and it was relatively calm, peaceful. Stiles had found himself stopping in so often that the barista that he always ran into was starting to know him by name. She was pretty: brown eyes and chocolate colored hair that fell to right above her shoulders. But he could never bring himself to say anything other than "Thanks."

Stiles slid into the wooden chair at his table by the window, pulling out his phone and pressing a button to bring it back to life. Still, she hadn't called him back.

It had been weeks since he had sent her off with the signed divorce papers, but he hadn't heard back from her to know whether or not the divorce was final. He knew that he shouldn't have cared at this point; it had been her idea in the first place – their time was up. He just wished he could wake up from this nightmare already.

The bell over the door to the shop rang and, out of sheer instinct, Stiles glanced up to see who the newcomer was. His mouth went dry.

Malia was standing just inside the door, bouncing on her heels, drenched from head to toe. Her hair was matted to her face, and she seemed frantic, a little on edge. But when she saw him, it was like someone had put a heater to her and she immediately thawed.

He thought about running, hiding, getting the hell out of there – but he didn't do anything. He just sat there, confused, as she walked over and gestured to the seat across from him. "Can I sit?"

Stiles just nodded wordlessly, unable to form words.

A young man came over as Malia was shrugging off her wet coat, asked if she would like a cup of coffee. She refused and he went away. All the while, Stiles couldn't take his eyes off of her. It was like he was seeing a ghost. Finally, he found his voice.

"What are you doing here?"

Malia let out a small, incredulous laugh, brushing her hair out of her face. "And here I was, thinking you'd be happy to see me –"

"Happy? You _left_ me, Malia." Stiles told her, leaning forward and lowering his voice slightly. "You went back to New York with no intention of coming back."

"But I did come back –"

"Why?" He snapped unintentionally, making Malia lean back in her chair, away from him. She looked a little put off by his tone, but then she sighed, clearly acknowledging that she deserved the verbal abuse.

She shook her head. "New York was not what I thought – not how I remembered it…" Malia swallowed hard, not looking at Stiles. "My dad was cheating on my mom. That's why I left, came here, married you. My parents aren't together anymore." She shrugged. "There's nothing left in New York for me."

Stiles opened his mouth and then closed it, suddenly feeling bad about how he had spoken to her before. He, of course, had not known any of this, but for the moment he decided not to dwell on the fact that she hadn't told him.

"I got the first flight back to California and at first, I didn't know where to go," Malia admitted. "I couldn't go back to the apartment, not after the way we'd left things. So I came here." She smiled a little, running her fingertips across the edge of the table absently. "This is the place we met, you know? It was only natural for me to be drawn to somewhere… happy."

"Wait," Stiles said, sitting up straighter, "did you just say that you remember? You remember the day that we met?"

Malia looked up at him then, as if just realizing what she'd said. "I – Well, yeah, I guess I do."

"Do you remember anything else?"

"Stiles…"

"Right, sorry," he admonished quickly, but he couldn't help the feeling that a ton of weight had just been lifted off of his shoulders. "It's progress though." Stiles paused for a second. "Can I ask you one more thing?"

Malia rolled her eyes. "Sure."

"Does this mean you're staying here? For real this time?"

"Yes," she smiled. "For real this time."

"Good. Go on a date with me."

"What?"

"You heard me. Even if there's no real chance of you remembering everything about our life together before the accident, the fact that you felt anything for me at all was real. And I'm going to keep trying to get back to that even if it sends you running for the hills. Again." Stiles explained with an unapologetic shrug. Malia raised an eyebrow, but laughed nonetheless. "Go on a date with me, Malia."

She smirked, considering for a moment. "Okay." Malia said, leaning towards him. "But on one condition: you're not taking me somewhere that we've already been before." Stiles tried to protest, but she stopped him. "I don't want you to get your hopes up again. I want to start over."

He didn't say anything at first; she had caught him just like she always used to, knowing exactly what he was thinking before he had a chance to think it. Stiles had considered taking her to the place where they had had their first date in the hopes that she might remember that night, too, but she was right. He had to let go of the past – especially if the odds of her not remembering were far greater than the odds of her remembering.

It was time to start writing a new story.

"Okay," Stiles finally said. "We can start over."


End file.
